Let it Be
by Riathe Mai
Summary: Death's Door Tag: Sam hadn't been trying to keep Dean in that place where Bobby had died.  He'd been trying to keep Dean with him.  And Dean, in his blind, drowning need to get away from that place, had pushed Sam aside and left him alone.
1. Chapter 1

_When I find myself in times of trouble, _

_Mother Mary comes to me._

_Speaking words of wisdom, let it be._

_Writer: LENNON, JOHN / MCCARTNEY, PAUL_

**LET IT BE**

Chapter One

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

…_I'm so sorry…_

…_did everything we could…_

…_injury was too severe…_

_Do you know if he…?_

_Do you need any…?_

_Dean!_

Dean couldn't say at what point he'd stopped listening. The words had been unintelligible; the relentless buzzing of a million angry bees crammed inside the cramped cavern of his skull all trying to get out at once. They were too loud, deafening even. And then, suddenly _he_ was like a bee trapped in a tiny glass jar, slamming against the invisible walls of his prison, trying to get to that place he could see beyond, trying to get _out!_ _Now!_

He'd fled, shaking off the hands that had tried to keep him there, that had tried to keep him trapped. He didn't know or care whose they were. It didn't _matter_ whose they were. Nothing mattered beyond the need to be away, to be anywhere but _there._

Where Bobby had died.

Bobby was dead! Bobby! The man who'd become more of a father to Dean than his own dad had ever been... The man who would answer his phone when Dean called and who would drop everything and come when Dean asked for help... The man who saw through every mask Dean had been trying for too damn long to hide behind and who didn't care about the ugliness lurking beneath... He'd only cared that Dean had felt he'd needed to hide from him in the first place.

Bobby was dead, and Dean didn't know what he was supposed to do, now.

_Now_ was a ledge, a narrow perch barely wide enough for him to stand on. He wanted to go back—God! How he wanted to go back, to yesterday, to _before_ Bobby had taken that bullet. Maybe Dean would do things differently, like work it so that bullet found him instead of Bobby.

_You die before me and I'll kill you!_

He couldn't go back, though. Life didn't come with do-overs; and once you were standing on _Now, Before_ was a locked door at your back. _Before_ was an unscalable wall pressing against your heels and crowding you on that ledge, threatening to push you forward until all you could do was fall into that gaping, black chasm that was _After._

But, wouldn't that be better, to be away from _Now_? _Now_ hurt. It hurt _so fucking _much. It was a crushing weight on his chest and a sharp-clawed fist around his heart. It was that never-ending swarm of bees buzzing in his brain. It was no breath and no thought; nothing but that stabbing _thump, thump, thump_ of a heart so cruel, so…_selfish_ that it continued to beat when Bobby's had stopped.

_Now_ was Hell, and he just wanted it to stop. He just wanted _everything_ to be over.

_You die before me and I'll kill you!_

'_You got your wish, Bobby,'_ Dean thought, and the bitterness he felt then shocked him as much as it shamed him. In that very moment, teetering on that ledge—on the _Now_ of his pain—he'd have gladly traded places with Bobby if it meant he wouldn't have to feel what he was feeling, now. In that very moment, that endless split second, he realized that he _resented_ Bobby for dying first and leaving him to carry on without him.

As though he would want Bobby to suffer this crushing, stabbing, relentless grief because of him?

As though he would wish this pain on someone he loved?

Was he really _that_ selfish?

It was a sobering realization, and with it came clarity. The bees in his head went quiet and the pressure on his chest eased. His heart still hurt. It would hurt for a long time, and Dean knew in that instant of sharp understanding that, _no,_ he would not have wished that pain on anyone.

It wasn't the dead who suffered in death; it was the living. The dead had it easy. They only had to lie down. The living were the ones who were left behind to mourn and to try to find a new path to travel now that the one they'd been on was no longer open to them. It was the living who had to find a way to step off that ledge; to move from _Now_ to _After_, even when _After_ loomed like some giant, gaping pit of nothingness bent on swallowing them whole.

It was the living who had to find a way to move beyond their pain and their…guilt; guilt that they got to see another day when their loved ones would never see anything ever again. It was the living who had to find a way to keep on living, when all they wanted to do was die.

_You find your… reasons to get back in the game. I don't care if it's love, or spite, or a ten dollar bet!_

The dead only had to stay dead. And wasn't that a lesson Dean had learned the hard way?

_Sam._

With his clarity came memory. Dean had left Sam in the ER waiting room. It had been Sam's hands he'd shaken off when he'd fled, and Sam's voice calling out his name. With memory came a sick realization. Sam hadn't been trying to keep Dean in that place where Bobby had died. He'd been trying to keep Dean with _him_. And Dean, in his blind, drowning need to get away from _that place_, had pushed Sam aside and left him alone.

"Ah, Sammy," he uttered, rubbing his hand down his face.

For the first time since leaving the hospital, Dean took stock of his surroundings. It was evening where it had been late afternoon when he'd left. A quick glance at his phone showed the time at a little past six o'clock. Not even two hours had passed since he'd left Sam. Almost two hours that had passed without him even realizing it. He turned in place, scanning the area around him. To his amazement, he was still on the hospital grounds. Well, at least he'd had enough sense not to get behind the wheel of…

That's right. They hadn't come there in the Impala; and as much as Dean longed for the comfort and security of his _Baby_, he was thankful that she wasn't there. If he'd seen her in the parking lot when he'd fled the ER waiting room, he'd have jumped behind her wheel and taken off. Who knows where he'd have ended up—assuming he hadn't wrapped her nose around a telephone pole in his distraction?

Dean reached into his front pocket. He still had the keys. That meant that Sam, most likely, was still in the hospital where Dean had left him. Giving his face another rough rub, he flipped open his phone and hit the speed-dial for Sam's number.

It rang twice and Dean cursed. No doubt Sam had shut it off, mindful of the risk of using cell phones around sensitive medical equipment. He started walking towards the building as the phone rang a third time with still no answer. On the fourth ring, Dean pulled the phone away from his ear and disconnected the call.

His phone rang. Sam's name flashed across the display, and Dean flipped the phone open and put it to his ear.

"Hey, Sa…"

"_Are you Dean?"_

It was a woman's voice, soft; familiar though he knew he'd never heard it before. He pulled the phone back and double-checked the display. He hadn't read it wrong. The call was coming from Sam's phone.

"Who is this?" he demanded; his alarm building. He increased his pace.

"…_ster Mary Win…tal Chap…ervices," _she answered.

_Mary Win…?_ The connection was terrible, growing worse the closer he got to the back entrance. Yet what little he'd heard of her name coupled with the sound of her voice sent Dean's heart jack-hammering up into his throat. He knew why her voice seemed familiar.

She sounded like his mom.

"Where's Sam?" he practically shouted into the phone.

"_Sam's…cident. Can you…to the hos…tal?"_

"Sam's been in an accident?"

That wasn't possible. How could Sam have been in an accident unless he'd left the hospital? Dean had the keys, so he couldn't have left on his own. Had he taken a cab? Where would he have gone? It wasn't like they could hole up in a nearby motel. Motels were too _on the radar_, which meant they were off their limits.

"_In—ci—dent,"_ the mysterious woman repeated slowly.

That made even less sense to Dean. "Where is he?"

"…_sorry. This is a ter…co…ction. How soon…et to the hosp..al?_

"I'm coming in the back entrance, right now."

"_C…n you pl… me…ses sta…on sec…or…gn B?"_

"What?"

"_Nurse's sta—tion. Se—cond floor. Wing B."_

"Is Sam okay?" he tried one last time.

"_N...hope you …ll us."_

"Hello?" Frustrated, Dean pulled his phone away from his ear and looked at the display. Only the clock showed. The call had dropped. He started to redial, hoping to get a better signal.

"I'm sorry, but you cannot use your cell phone in this area."

Dean's head snapped up and he glared at the young man in the blue-gray scrubs. The young man stumbled back a step, his face washing out.

"How do I get to the nurse's station on the second floor?" Dean asked urgently, hoping the kid wouldn't pass out before he could answer the question.

"W—which one?" the young man stammered.

Dean took a deep breath and tried to appear a little less like someone who might open fire in a crowded hospital. "Sorry. I just got a call that my brother was…" He almost couldn't get the words out. Sam couldn't be hurt. He just couldn't. Not so soon after Bobby. He just couldn't…

"They told me to go to the nurse's station on the second floor. Ah, Wing B, I think she said."

The young man nodded and seemed to relax a bit. "This is C Wing," he said. "If you follow this hallway... Keep going past three…uh…well, intersections, I guess. At the fourth, turn left and you'll come to a bank of elevators. Go to the second floor and turn right. There should be signs."

Dean thanked him and took off down the hall at a fast pace. He found the elevators, rode one up to the second floor, and turned to the left as he'd been instructed. On the wall, there was a sign with one arrow pointing down the hall towards B wing and another pointing in the other direction towards C wing. He went down the hall towards B wing.

B for Bobby.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Are you Dean?"

The voice and the inflection when she said his name were exactly as he'd heard on the phone. He spun around, and he couldn't have stopped the gasp that tore out of his throat if his life had depended on it.

For one second, it was his mom standing there. Her warm, gentle eyes regarded him with compassion and understanding that nearly brought tears to his eyes. He took a step back and blinked. The illusion shattered and he realized his mistake.

The woman standing there was older, maybe late forties, early fifties. She was of a small build, coming up to Dean's shoulder, with blonde hair and kind, accepting blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said genuinely. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Sister Mary Winship. I believe we spoke on the phone."

Mary Winship? Not Mary Winchester. He almost laughed out loud but he held it back. It would have been a bitter-sounding thing, filled with self-castigation and self-loathing. Was he losing his mind, now, too?

"You are Dean, right?" she asked. Concern flashed in her eyes, but nothing else. No judgment. No censure. Just genuine concern.

He drew in a shaky breath and scrubbed his hand down his face. "Yeah, I'm Dean, Sister…"

_Sister?_

The final detail of what he was seeing clicked into place. _Jesus Christ!_ She was a nun! And he'd thought she was his mother? Talk about a Madonna complex.

The laugh threatened closer, inching up his throat with clawed hands. "Yeah, I'm Dean." He had to force the words out around that lump of cold mirth. He didn't even realize that he was repeating himself. "I'm sorry. It's just…" He couldn't even articulate what 'it just' was.

Apparently, he didn't have to. Sister Mary Winship smiled in sympathy.

Normally that would have irritated him. More likely, it would have pissed him off. They issued those empty platitudes on a daily basis. That's all they were. Platitudes. But hers didn't seem that way. Neither did the words that followed.

"That is completely understandable. You've just suffered a terrible loss, and through such awful means. He was your uncle?"

Dean could only nod.

"But he was more than that, to you." It was a statement of fact. "To you both."

Dean took another step back, suddenly suspicious. "How do you know that?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. He drew himself up to his full height and said menacingly, "Where is Sam?"

Sister Mary Winship was unaffected. She simply stood there with her hands clasped in front of her. Her gentle smile didn't waver a bit.

"He's safe," she said calmly; a subtle note of reassurance coloring her tone. "He is in a private room, resting."

"What?" _Private room, resting? _Why would Sam need to be resting in a private room? Dean was reeling, a million possible scenarios flashing through his mind all at once.

"We can talk on the way," she said. She turned back towards the direction she'd come, looking at him over her shoulder. After a pause, he drew even with her and they started walking down the long corridor.

"We found him in the chapel about forty minutes before you called his cell phone," she started. "For such a large young man, he had squeezed himself into a very small space, and he seemed to be in the middle of...an _emotional_ break."

Dean's steps faltered. Immediately, that evening at the warehouse came to mind; Sam distraught and confused, yelling and firing his gun at a tormentor only he could see and hear, a tormentor Sam had claimed wore Dean's face. It had been weeks going on months since Sam had had an episode like that, and yet the image still was so clear. To Dean, it was as raw and as sharp as if it had happened only yesterday.

But she'd said an _emotional_ break? Was that different than a _psychotic_ break, or was she just being polite?He was afraid to hope.

"How, exactly?" he asked.

She looked up at him with that same warm, sympathetic yet non-judgmental smile. "He was pressed behind the lectern, almost as if he was trying to hide, and he was rocking back and forth, talking to himself. It was how I knew he was there, actually. I heard his voice as I was walking by the door."

Dean felt that tightness building in his chest again. He almost expected those bees to start up their buzzing, but his mind stayed quiet. Too quiet. Empty of thought. Not even the hum of white noise. Nothing.

"He was very upset," she was saying. Her words were soft and unaffected, even and calm. Her whole demeanor was _calm,_ as though the concept was a tangible thing. Dean could feel it settling around him.

Either that or he had officially shut down. Lights on, no one home. Like Elvis, Dean had officially left the building. He wondered if they'd let Sam and him share the padded room.

She continued speaking, unaware that her words were falling on Dean like ash, landing on him in a fine mist but not penetrating. "He was saying, 'this isn't real', and 'you're not real' or 'you're not here'. He wouldn't open his eyes, even when I asked him if he needed some help. He just squeezed them tighter and curled over himself."

She suddenly stopped. She laid her hand on Dean's arm when he kept walking, not realizing that she'd stopped. He looked down at her hand, so small it probably wouldn't have reached around his forearm.

"Dean," she said his name and it was his mother's voice again. He couldn't help but look at her. He met her blue eyes, suddenly wanting the illusion so badly. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten what he wanted.

Sister Mary met his gaze and gave him a gentle but sad smile. It was all he could do not to pull away, not wanting to hear what she clearly was about to tell him. "There was a significant amount of blood coming from a wound on the palm of his left hand. It appears as though he had torn open a previous injury. He was so distraught; I don't even think he realized he was doing it at the time."

"Oh, God," he uttered, brokenly. He realized what he'd said, and cringed. "Sorry, Sister."

She just smiled indulgently. "I understand this must be very difficult. I'm sorry. I wish there was an easier way to tell you. However, something tells me that you are the type who prefers the facts straight without the spoonful of sugar to help them go down."

He laughed, despite himself; a sharp snort of a chuckle that might have erupted into hysterics if it weren't for that strange aura of calm coming from the woman in front of him.

"Sam was a warrior, wasn't he?" she asked then.

The question, so totally out of the blue and coming from left field, caught Dean by surprise. "A warrior?" He chuckled at the absurdity of it.

"Well, I would have said soldier, but with hair like that…?"

"Yeah, well…" Dean shrugged his shoulders. He looked down the hall they'd just come down, his eyes ghosting over the signs and posters and pictures hanging on the walls without really seeing them. "Our dad was a Marine and he served his country during Vietnam," he said absently. It didn't even cross his mind that he was sharing something of his family with a total stranger. "Sam and I were never in the military. We'd never claim to be soldiers."

"Not all who serve their fellow man in times of war wear a uniform," she pointed out. "And not all wars are fought on global fields. I worked for years in a VA hospital, and I've seen soldiers who have come back from war hurt in both body and spirit. Sam has that same look. What he did to his hand; that's a coping mechanism, isn't it? He wasn't really trying to hurt himself, was he?"

Dean looked back at her. There was something in her eyes that hadn't been there before; a subtle urgency or…determination. No. Conviction. That was it. It was that same look Sam used to get when he _knew_ he was right about something but no one else seemed to be on board. Of course, just because Sam _knew_ he was right, didn't mean that he _was_ right. Sam's judgment had failed him on more than one occasion and he was still paying for it.

He'd probably be paying for it for the rest of his life.

"Hurt himself?" The idea was nuts. Sam ten kinds of crazy and 'tripping Hell's Bells' was still the same stubborn, pain in the ass, fight-tooth-and-nails kid he'd always been. If anyone was going to try to check out ahead of schedule, it wasn't going to be Sam.

Dean pushed that thought aside, not liking the way it seemed to settle in the pit of his gut like a bad meal. "Sam cut his hand on a piece of glass about two months ago," he explained, sounding defensive even to his own ears. "It was an accident, that's all."

"And since?"

He took a step back, pulling his arm away from her touch. He'd forgotten it was even there. "What are you implying?"

Her calm demeanor didn't change even in the wake of his threatening stance. She simply folded her hands in front of her again. "I'm not implying anything. I'm trying to understand so I can help him." Her expression suddenly became grave. "And I need you to understand the gravity of the situation. It is the policy of any hospital: when there is reason to believe that a person might be a danger to himself, or that an injury might have been self-inflicted, the authorities are notified and the patient is remanded to psychiatric care.

"Sam is _safe_," she insisted. The way she emphasized the word _safe_, as though it encompassed harm in all its forms; it was as if she knew the exact words to say to penetrate Dean's worry. "No one has been notified, yet. He is in a private room, sedated enough to keep him calm and comfortable."

Dean rubbed his hand down his face, recognizing it as a nervous habit every bit as neurotic as Sam's new habit of pressing on his palm. As though he could wipe away the stress pressing down on him…As though he could wipe away the pain or the horror of the things he'd seen or done…As though he could wipe away the evidence of his shattering composure before it spilled out all over the floor next to Sam's scattered marbles…

"Dean." Again with that voice so like his mother's. Infinitely patient. Infinitely understanding.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why haven't they called the cops or…or…" _Locked him up?_ He couldn't say it.

"Because I asked them to wait until I could speak to you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_T. B. C._

_**Author Note:** This is my first official Supernatural story, so I hope you'll be kind. A very special thank you to Kailene, for introducing me to this series, for coaxing me back into writing, for being my sounding board for ideas, and for being the best friend ever. Love you. All errors are mine entirely._


	2. Chapter 2

_And in my hour of darkness, _

_She is standing right in front of me._

_Speaking words of wisdom, let it be_

_Writer: LENNON, JOHN / MCCARTNEY, PAUL_

**LET IT BE**

Chapter Two

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were walking again. Dean couldn't say how she'd managed to get him moving. He doubted it had involved anything as dramatic as her physically grabbing his arm and dragging him along. She just didn't seem the type to resort to physical solutions to solve complicated problems. She seemed more the passive resistance type, all that calm, steady authority with none of the more imposing traits that always rubbed Dean the wrong way.

For all that Sam had thrown Dean's 'blind faith', 'good little soldier' tendencies where their dad was concerned in Dean's face; Dean had never done well with authority figures. They pushed every button Dean had, bringing out his more pugnacious side.

_See, Sammy. I can use the big words, too._ Never mind that he only knew that word because Sam had called him that once and then had burst out laughing so hard when Dean had taken offense at being compared to a flat-faced, pork-roast of a dog with bulging eyes, that he couldn't speak to tell him what it meant. He'd staggered over to his laptop, wiping tears out of his eyes so he could see to type, and then had turned the laptop around so Dean could see.

He'd brought up some online dictionary and had typed in the word. Dean had read the screen while Sam continued to laugh and gasp until Dean thought the damn idiot was going to make himself sick.

_Pugnacious: adjective: meaning inclined to quarrel or fight readily; quarrelsome; belligerent; combative. _

Dean had then shut the laptop and turned to his soon-to-be-dismembered little brother.

"I'll show you pugnacious, bitch!" he'd threatened, trying hard to keep a straight face in the wake of his brother's hysterical laugher.

His smug, little shit of a little brother had looked at him with a happy grin so big you could have lost a pug in his dimples. "Bring it on, Fido!"

The wrestling match that had ensued had broken a lamp and an end table, and had had them both laughing so hard at the end that they'd had to call a truce because they both couldn't breathe.

Dean had never heard his brother laugh like that since, so full and open and unashamed. Sam rarely laughed at all, now, and when he did, it was as though he felt he shouldn't; lips merely twitching, head tipped down, brow creased, slight flush of shame to his face. There had been nothing in their life for so long worth laughing about.

"Do you believe in Fate, Dean?" Sister Mary asked suddenly, breaking through his thoughts.

"No."

"No?" She seemed surprised at this. She had stopped at a bank of elevators and had pressed the down button but she didn't look at him as she waited for the doors to open. "Then, you believe that coincidences are just that; things that happen for no apparent reason and with no apparent connection?"

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "In my experience, Sister; there are no coincidences," he commented cryptically. "The average person just doesn't want to see the truth that's staring them right in the face."

"I think you're right about that." The elevator pinged and the doors opened. They stepped aside to let the occupants disembark, and then stepped into the now empty car. She pushed the button for one floor down, but before Dean could question where they were going, she spoke again.

"Three weeks ago, I was in Leavenworth, Kansas, working as a Hospice volunteer in the VA hospital."

"Leavenworth, Kansas?" he repeated.

"Do you know it?"

"Sam and I were born in Lawrence," he answered, feeling a little numb. "It's about 30 miles or so from there."

She just nodded with a small smile. "I'd worked there for years, through the local arch diocese. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And then, three weeks ago, I was called in on a Tuesday night to fill in for Sister Sarah, who had never missed a day of work in the five years she'd been there. For some reason, that evening she'd just called in to say she couldn't be there. So I went in to fill her rounds.

"There was a coma patient, there; an old Vietnam Vet who had come in about a month before with his granddaughter. Now there was an interesting story. They had just met each other for the first time a few weeks before when he'd wandered into a homeless shelter where the granddaughter happened to be working.

"Neither knew much about the other, only that they existed somewhere. It wasn't until the granddaughter noticed the photograph he'd been holding was actually a picture of her mother that they learned who each other was. She'd brought him to the hospital a few days later, but he slipped into a coma that night. He'd been there ever since."

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. Dean swept his hand before him indicating that she should precede him off the elevator, and then he followed behind. She turned to the right and started down the long corridor.

"He woke up that night while I was sitting with him," she resumed her story. Dean wasn't sure where she was going with this tale or how—or even if—it had anything to do with them, but something made him listen. "One second, he was asleep as he'd been every night for the last month, and the next his eyes were open and he was looking right at me like he knew who I was. He was on Sister Sarah's rounds. I had my own patients who I saw on my rounds. I had never seen him before that night."

She stopped in the middle of the corridor, and turned to look at Dean. "He looked right at me, though; and I will never forget what he said to me. He said he had lived the life he'd lived, good or ill, and that it was too late to go back and do things differently. He'd made his peace with his life long ago. He then said that the morning before he'd walked into that homeless shelter, he'd told God that whatever He wanted to do with him, whatever He had planned, was fine. There were only two things he wanted before God took him.

"One was to finally meet his granddaughter."

"And what was the other?" Dean asked.

She shrugged with a sad smile. "To someday repay a debt he owed to someone who had saved his life during the war. He didn't say who it was, just that it was probably too late for that, but he was still hopeful. He grew real quiet after that, and I really thought he was just going to drift away.

"Then he suddenly opened his eyes again, and he looked right at me like he had before; but there was something different about him. It was like there was something else looking out through his eyes; something amazing and awesome. Something…_Divine_. He reached out and I took his hand; and he said, 'Go where you are needed, my child.'

"I said I would, of course. That is what I'd promised when I'd taken my vows. I wasn't promising him anything that I hadn't already agreed to do. When you are in the service of your vocation, you go where your calling needs you to go and you do what your calling needs you to do. Even when that place or that task seems… unimaginable.

"He just smiled and then he was gone. The next day, my superior told me that a sister parish on the east coast had just lost one of their sisters to illness. They needed someone with Hospice experience to fill in until they could find a more permanent replacement. My superior immediately thought of me. I said I'd go."

"Just like that?"

Again, she shrugged her shoulders and gave him that gentle smile. "You go where your calling needs you to go and you do what your calling needs you to do."

She started walking again, heading down another long corridor. Dean was so turned around; he really wasn't sure where he was anymore. He had no choice but to follow her. Her pace wasn't hurried. He hoped that meant that things weren't dire. Still, he didn't understand why she had asked him to meet her on the second floor instead of the first.

"I've been here a little over a week," she continued speaking, weaving her story in that calm, soothing voice. "To be honest, I've been wondering nearly that whole time why I was sent here. When I arrived at the parish, here, they told me that there had been a change, and that they needed me to help out at the hospital, instead. I didn't understand…until I found your brother."

Dean stopped. "You found Sam?" Even as he asked, he remembered her telling him how she'd heard Sam talking as she'd walked by the door.

She nodded. "Yes. I'd heard him speaking, and I knew just from his voice, alone, that he was lost. And when I saw him… He had that same look about him that I'd seen on the faces of the soldiers who had not fully returned from the war. Oh, their bodies were back, some broken and some without a mark on them to show for how they'd suffered; but their spirits were still there, still locked in that terrible place or in some terrible memory that they just couldn't seem to escape.

"I didn't know who he was or where he'd come from, just that he was hurting and that he was injured. I called the ER to ask for assistance and then sat with him until they showed up. It was only a few minutes, but he was…so…haunted. He kept saying the same thing over and over again, as if something was taunting him. I finally just placed my hands on top of his and started to pray.

"The next thing I knew, he was praying with me. Then he looked up at me, and… he seemed really afraid." She frowned. It was the first time she's shown any real emotion. "He called me Mom."

"You look like her," Dean said through the sudden lump in his throat. "You sound like her, too. She died when…" He caught himself before he finished that sentence. How would he explain how Sam knew what his mom looked or sounded like if he were to tell her that their mother had died when Sam was a mere six months old? "She died when we were kids."

"I'm sorry," she said, and Dean believed her. "When I told Sam who I was, he told me she had died." She looked up at Dean, her expression still troubled. "Sam experienced something…something unspeakably terrible, didn't he?"

_As a matter of fact, Sam's soul spent the equivalent of 160 years trapped in in a cage in Hell with a pissed off Lucifer and a pissed off Michael!_

He wondered what she'd say to that. "You can't even imagine," he said instead.

"I would guess that there aren't too many that can."

Dean gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. "No one could," he said angrily. "He should be a drooling puddle in a padded cell after what he went through, but he's not." He didn't know why he was saying this but he suddenly couldn't stop. Maybe, he just wanted her to understand. Didn't she say that she wanted that too? To understand so she could help Sam?

"It was rough at first; the nightmares, the hallucinations, the flashbacks. Half the time, he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. But then one day… it was like a switch had been thrown. I don't know how, but suddenly he was in control again. He'd figured out a way to ground himself."

"His hand," she said.

He nodded. "It was right after he'd injured it. He was having a really bad episode. It was like he didn't even know who I was. I grabbed his hand and I pressed into that cut, and suddenly he was back. After that, I'd catch him digging into it. He tore the stitches a few times, but eventually he stopped and it healed. It's been weeks. He rubs at it, sometimes; but that's it. Sometimes, it's like none of it ever happened."

He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hallway, her earlier comment suddenly fresh in his mind. "No way, did Sam try to hurt himself."

She looked at him with that gentle smile. "I didn't think he did, which is why I asked them to wait."

"Why?" he demanded. "What makes you so sure? You don't even know him. He could be all kinds of crazy, for all you know."

"I just know," she said calmly. "The way he looked at me; like someone who had seen Hell and had survived the flame. Like someone whose soul had been battered and bruised, and yet somehow, it was still intact. Injured, but not broken."

Dean spun away from her, away from that too familiar face. What she'd said… How she'd described what she'd seen in Sam's eyes… She was so close to the truth that he wanted to tell her everything. He _needed_ someone else to know. He couldn't do this alone. He just couldn't.

He felt something touch his arm and he turned to look at her over his shoulder. "You're not alone, here," she said as though she had read his mind. "Your brother is grieving just as you are."

He looked away again, squeezing his eyes closed to keep the tears at bay.

"Dean, Sam and I had a few minutes to talk before the nurses showed up to help him. He told me that his uncle had just died, and that he had been like a father to his brother and him. He said he'd come to the chapel because everything was just so loud. He'd wanted it to stop and he thought it wouldn't follow him there.

"I asked him if he was alone and he told me that his brother, Dean, had come to the hospital with him, but that he'd left after his uncle had died. He didn't know where he was or if he was coming back. When I asked him if he wanted me to call him, though, he said, no."

"What?"

"He said he didn't want me to call you because you had enough to deal with. You didn't need his 'pile of crazy on top of everything else.' His words, not mine."

_Oh, God, Sammy._

She slowly turned him so he faced her, and she gathered both of his hands into hers. Her hands were so small compared to his; the skin white to his sun-darkened, soft to his calloused. "You look after each other, don't you?"

"Our whole life, it seems."

"You both try so hard to protect each other from harm." He could only nod. "And yet, instead of turning towards each other for strength and support; you turn away and try to hide the pain you are feeling from each other. You both have suffered the same loss. Who better to understand what one is feeling than the other?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean slowly pushed open the door and poked his head into the hospital room. Sister Mary had warned him what he would find, but he still wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him. He would never be prepared for something like that.

Sam lay sleeping on the bed, his head tipped slightly to one side, his hair fanned out across the pillow. His face was pale, the skin around his eyes sunken and bruised. An IV line ran from a bag to the back of his right hand. A band of white gauze circled his left.

Cuffs circled both wrists, anchoring him to the bed. It was the standard procedure for patients on suicide watch.

Sister Mary had explained that the doctor had seen the thin white scars running up the length of Sam's arms. They were barely noticeable, but because of how he'd been found, they'd looked for signs of previous attempts. Sedated, Sam hadn't been able to tell them otherwise, and they probably wouldn't have believed him if he'd tried. Few attempted suicides could be trusted to admit to the failed attempts, after all.

"Those weren't self-inflicted," Dean had told her. At the look of pain that had flashed across her face, he'd said nothing else about it. He'd tell the doctor as soon as one showed up. In the meantime, those cuffs were coming off.

He stepped into the room and approached the bed. He carefully undid the buckle around Sam's right wrist and set his arm on the bed beside him, then circled the end of the bed and freed the left.

"Ah, Sammy. What a freakin' mess we are." He reached up and brushed a lock of Sam's hair away from his temple. The slight discoloration of the skin was the only thing to indicate where the leviathan wearing Edgar's body had nearly killed him with the tire iron. He rubbed the back of his knuckle over the spot. Not the slightest bump remained.

Sam's lashes were spiked with tears, as though his grief was stronger than the sedatives in his system. Dean felt his own eyes sting and burn. He didn't know if it was from the tears he just could seem to shed or from the fatigue that was suddenly dragging him down.

He felt like he'd been awake and on his feet for days.

He spied a chair in the corner—a big sleeper chair—and dragged it closer to the bed. The thing weighed a ton, and it scraped across the floor with all the subtlety of the Impala door hinges after a week of rain. Sam didn't react to the noise.

Dean lowered himself into its cushions with a sigh. He reached through the side rail and took Sam's hand, mindful of the wound hidden beneath that white bandage. He cringed as he tried to imagine the state of mind Sam must have been in to unknowingly tear through the thickened scar tissue with nothing sharper than his own fingernails, and the level of anguish he must have been feeling if he'd needed that kind of pain to counter it.

"Not much of a stone one, am I?" he said bitterly. He dropped his forehead onto the rail and closed his eyes.

He lifted his head not even a minute later. The rail was too hard. More importantly, it was a barrier between them and there had been too damn many of those, lately. He let go of Sam's hand, tucking it against his hip. He carefully released the latch on the bar and lowered it to the floor.

He took Sam's hand again, cupping it between both of his. "I'm here, now, Sam. I'll be here when you wake up. I'll be right here." He dropped his head onto his hands and closed his eyes.

"Dean?"

He woke with a small gasp, his head shooting up from where it rested on the mattress by Sam's hip. He still held Sam's hand between his own. Confused, he sat up straight. Something slid off his shoulders to pool on the chair around his hips. He was surprised to see it was a blanket. He didn't remember having that when he'd closed his eyes what felt like seconds ago.

He let go of Sam's hand with his top-most hand and rubbed it down his face, blinking rapidly to get his sticky eyes to focus. He looked at Sam, expecting him to still be asleep.

Liquid hazel eyes met his.

"Hey," he said, pushing himself to his feet. He didn't have it in him to give Sam the usual glib remark. Not with the way Sam was looking at him like he thought Dean was another hallucination.

Habit compelled Dean to press his thumb into the center of Sam's palm, but he stopped himself. That was a crutch and one they had to stop using. Instead, he leaned over and cupped the side of Sam's face.

"It's really me, Sammy," he said. "So tell that sonuvabitch wearing my face to fuck off and die."

For all that Sam had learned at the heels of a master, he really didn't swear all that much. The real Lucifer was still in the Cage. They had to believe that, even if it meant that the Lucifer who taunted and harassed and tormented Sam was nothing more than an extension of Sam's own fractured psyche. Therefore the things he said and how he said them—hell, even the face the SOB wore _while_ he said them—all had to come from Sam's own mind; rooting through Sam's own fears or Sam's own guilt for the means to inflict the most pain and the most anguish.

It was the worst kind of self-injury imaginable, and they couldn't keep countering it with more self-abuse. So if Sam didn't swear all that much, then Dean had to assume that the Dean who sometimes manifested in Sam's hallucinations wouldn't swear all that much, either.

If a few strategically placed f-bombs helped Sam tell the difference between the real Dean and the fake one, the real Dean was more than happy to do his part.

Apparently, his theory held merit. Sam drew in a shaky breath, his eyes going wide with shock. He blinked rapidly, spilling tears over the rim of his lashes. "Dean?"

Dean gave him the best cocky smile he could muster—which at the moment probably was closer to his worst. "In the flesh."

But instead of relief, Sam only looked away. "Why are you here?" he uttered miserably.

It was Dean's turn to wince. "Why do you think?"

"I told her not to call you."

"Yeah, well, luckily for you she's smarter than both of us."

Dean applied gentle pressure to the side of Sam's face hoping to coax him to look at him. Sam resisted, going so far as to close his eyes to force the issue. He face was so close to crumbling; Dean didn't know how he was holding back the tears.

"Sam, she didn't call me. I called you."

That got a tentative glance. "You did?"

"Yeah. When I finally came to my senses and realized that what I'd done." He sighed heavily. "Ah, man; I'm sorry I took off on you like that. I wasn't thinking straight. I just…I—I had to get outta there, you know? I just couldn't stand there and…and listen—"

"Oh, God," Sam gasped. "He's really dead, isn't he?" A sob tore loose. "That really happened? Of all the things that sonuvabitch has lied about, that's _real_?"

Another hitching sob broke free, despite how hard Sam was trying to keep them in.

"Oh, Sammy. Come'ere."

Dean barely pulled and suddenly he had his arms full of a grief-stricken, crying Sam clinging to him like he very life depended on it. Great, wracking sobs ripped out of him, and Dean just held him tighter, burying his face in his brother's sweat-damp hair. For a second, he actually envied Sam's ability to cry like that, to just let the pain and grief pour out of him in a purging rush. Dean's pain felt trapped, his grief locked behind the same damned wall behind which he'd locked every hurt he'd ever felt.

Tears leaked out, as though the ducts in his eyes were some kind of twisted pressure relief valve; but the bulk of his anguish stayed buried. As if sensing Dean's frozen posture, Sam started to pull away, mumbling apologies as he tried to escape.

"Don't, Sam," Dean whispered, burying his fist in the strands of his brother's hair so he couldn't pull away. Sam was still shaking, his sobs suddenly silent but still tearing out of him. He'd done that as a kid, burying his face in his pillow at night so they wouldn't hear him crying and think he was weak. Dean would see the traces on Sam's face in the morning and find the tear-damp pillow, and he'd feel like the worst big brother ever for not realizing his baby brother was hurting.

Sam wasn't weak. He was one of the strongest people Dean knew. He'd be damned if he'd let Sam think he thought otherwise. "Shshh. It's okay. Just let it out, Sammy," he crooned into Sam's hair. He wished he could take his own advice.

He had no idea how long they were like that, Sam sobbing in his arms and Dean gently rocking him. His back was a tight band of pain and his shoulders were burning, but he was not going to push Sam away while Sam still needed him. Eventually, Sam grew still, his head resting heavy in the crook of Dean's neck and his arms lax where they draped around Dean's chest and back.

Thinking Sam asleep, he carefully leaned forward and supported Sam's unresisting weight back onto the mattress. As he straightened, however, he saw that Sam's eyes were open. Slowly, his gaze lifted until it met Dean's. His eyes looked painful and swollen and a little empty.

"You are a mess, Princess," Dean teased, hoping to ease some of the tension from the moment.

Sam's brow dipped a little—if he'd been going for the bitchface, he'd failed miserably. "What are we gonna do, Dean?" he asked.

He sounded like the Sammy of old; 8-years-old or 12-years-old or 16-years-old, it didn't matter. He'd looked to his big brother to have all the answers, believing that Dean at 12 or Dean at 16 or Dean at 20 would come through. Well Dean didn't have all the answers. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to look Sam in the eye and say with confidence that he knew what they were going to do. He had no idea, and every instinct in him said to tell Sam not to worry, he'd think of something.

As he looked as his brother's grief-ravaged face, though; he knew he couldn't do that. He couldn't look him in those bloodshot, shock-numb eyes and lie. He could barely look him in the eye and tell him the truth, either.

He scrubbed his hand down his face. "I don't know, Sammy," he admitted. "I wish to God, I did; but I don't have the first damn clue."

Sam just nodded, his brow dipping further. He looked away for a second, and when he looked back at Dean, there was a subtle spark of classic Sammy-determination in his eyes. "Then I guess _we_ had better figure something out, huh?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_T. B. C._

_Author Notes: I can't express how happy I am with the reponses I've received for this story. It has been very encouraging and I appreciate it very much. I hope you all are still reading. As always, thank you so much, Kailene, for all your help. You are the best._


	3. Chapter 3

_And when the broken hearted people _

_Living in the world agree_

_There will be an answer, let it be_

_Writer: LENNON, JOHN / MCCARTNEY, PAUL_

**LET IT BE**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 3

They had no idea what they were going to do, but they knew what they couldn't do and that was stick around. The reasons were almost too many to grasp, though a few stood out in no particular order. They had no insurance—fake or otherwise. They had no IDs—fake or otherwise. They'd come in with the victim of a gunshot wound meaning the police were going to want to talk to them.

And then there was the biggest reason of all; the reason that trumped every other. Dick Roman knew they were there.

Dick Roman.

The mere thought of the name lit a fire in Dean's gut that threatened to send him tearing out of the room in a blood-red haze. That smarmy-faced, son of a bitch had killed Bobby. The desire for revenge was a match to dry kindling, incendiary and immediate. The _need_ to find and destroy every last one of those big-mouthed, ooze-filled, body-copying bastards urged Dean to move, to act; just as the enormity of the task—of having to do it alone—froze him where he stood.

Then Sam said his name, in that way that only Sam could say it; encompassing concern and doubt and understanding and trust and determination and uncertainty and so many other emotions that Dean didn't even have the vocabulary to name; and his paralysis broke.

He didn't have to do this alone.

_Then I guess _we_ had better figure something out, huh?_

_We,_ as in the two of them. Together. But first, they had to get out of there.

He made quick work of the IV in Sam's arm and wrestled Sam into his jeans, t-shirt, over-shirt, and boots. They were blood stained, great reddish-brown, amoeba-shaped splotches across the thighs of his jeans and the front of his shirt where he must have cradled his hand. Some of it was probably Bobby's too. Dean tried not to think about that, though. He looked like an extra in a slasher film.

Sam was pasty-white by the time Dean pulled him to his feet. He swayed dangerously and clutched at Dean's arm. Dean held him until he could lock his knees under him, and then Sam pushed him away.

"I'm good," Sam said.

Dean knew he wasn't. He needed to be in bed, resting. The sedatives would be in his system for a while. How he was even awake, never mind vertical, was a mystery. Then again, Sam's stubbornness was the stuff of legends.

Dean turned and grabbed Sam's coat off the ledge in front of the window. There was more blood splattered across the front so he turned it inside out. It wouldn't hide anything if Sam wore it; but maybe if he just carried it in front of him he wouldn't attract too much unwanted attention.

He turned back and held it out to Sam. Sam just stared at it but made no move to take it. His eyes were miserable.

"Sam," Dean called out to him.

"What about Bobby?" Sam asked. His voice was small and low, the words spoken as though their edges would shred him if he said them too loud. "We can't just…"

"We won't, Sam. We'll do right by him, so help me; but right now, we gotta go."

For a second, he thought Sam might balk. He had that stubborn set to his jaw. Then he seemed to deflate, all the resistance seeping right out of him. He let out a breath and nodded, taking his coat from Dean's out-stretched hand. That alone told Dean how 'not good' Sam was really feeling.

He took a few steps forward and Dean took him by the arm when he veered a bit off course. "Gonna have to do better than that, Scarecrow," Dean teased.

Sam made a face. "You know that makes you, Dorothy."

Dean snorted, reaching for the door. "You wish, Bitch." He pulled it open and almost walked right into Sister Mary.

She was standing outside their door, her hand raised to knock. Startled, she took a quick step back. Dean drew up short, but Sam wasn't as coordinated. He bumped into Dean's side, stumbled back a step, and nearly lost his balance. Dean tightened his hold to help steady him, but Sam still threw his hands out to either side. His right hit Dean in the chest and he grasped a fistful of Dean's coat. His left grabbed the doorjamb beside him.

Immediately, he snatched his hand back with a sharp hiss of pain and clutched it into his chest. "That was stupid," he uttered through clenched teeth.

"Dammit, Sam," Dean sighed. He took Sam's hand and turned it over so he could make sure there was no blood seeping through the gauze bandage. "Are we gonna have to wrap that hand in bubble wrap for the next month?"

The bandage stayed white, and after a minute Sam scowled. "It's fine," he said, pulling his hand back. He looked up and sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body going rigid. His hand shot out and grasped Dean's coat again. "Dean," he gasped, staring at Sister Mary in disbelief and alarm.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean said, squeezing his arm. He knew exactly what Sam was seeing. "It's not her."

Sam's gaze snapped to Dean then back to her. Then he tipped his head to the side and he blinked. His confusion cleared and he let out a shaky breath. "S—Sister Mary."

"Hello, Sam," she said with a gentle smile. She looked at them both with concern. "I just came by to see how you were doing."

Several different emotions flashed across Sam's face, though embarrassment seemed to be the more prominent one. "I'm…better, I—I guess." The corners of his mouth twitched in the barest of smiles even as the skin around his eyes tightened. "Thanks."

"You don't need to thank me," she said. "I'm glad I was there to help."

He nodded, his eyes growing bright with the threat of tears, then he dropped his gaze blinking rapidly. He was shaking, fine tremors that Dean could feel under his hand. The slight blush of color that rose in his cheeks was not enough to erase just how pale he was. If anything, it made him look a little feverish.

She continued to look from one to the other. Clearly she didn't like what she saw. "Is something wrong?"

Instinct and habit said to lie; to just reach into that mental Rolodex and yank out any one of the countless stock answers he kept stored there for just such an occasion. Nothing would come, though. Nothing that wouldn't come out sounding like, _'None of your business! Now get the hell outta the way!'_

He couldn't do that, though; and it wasn't for any reason so noble as because she'd helped Sam or because she didn't deserve it or because she was a _nun_, for crying out loud! It was something else; something Dean couldn't articulate; something so inexplicable he should have distrusted it from the beginning, testing it with salt and holy water and silver and sodium borate; and having passed, still held it at arm's length.

But he did trust it. Against all reason, against everything he'd ever learned in his crappy, hard-knock life; even in the wake of Castiel's betrayal that had shattered his spun-glass faith in everything and everyone save his ever-dwindling family. He trusted that calm aura that seemed to surround her. It reached inside him, touching that frantic, hopeless thing slamming itself against that tiny glass jar screaming, _'Let me out!' 'Make it stop!'_ _'I can't do this!'_ _'No! No! No!'_; and it said, _'Breathe.'_ _'You _can_ do this.'_

Not even Dean Winchester could stand before something so profound and lie to its face.

"We're leaving," he answered.

"Leaving?" She looked at Sam again and frowned. "Dean—"

He just shook his head. He couldn't lie to her, but that didn't mean he could just tell her the truth. "I'm sorry, Sister. I appreciate everything you've done. I—I can't thank you enough for helping Sam and keeping the authorities out of it. But, we just can't stay here."

"Are you in trouble?"

Dean snorted bitterly. They were in so much trouble he didn't know where to begin. Again, he shook his head. "I can't explain, Sister. I'm sorry. I swear we're not…" _Criminals? Outlaws?_ "…terrorists."

Her face changed, understanding softening her eyes. She laid her hand on his arm. "Do you have some place to go?"

As if she knew that they had no place to call home…

As though she knew that they couldn't get lower down on their luck if they tried…

As if she knew that they had nothing left but each other…

"We'll be fine," he said, because what else was he supposed to say? It wouldn't be the first time they'd slept in their car—and really, the van was considerably more spacious than the Impala even with all the weapons stashed in the back.

It wasn't as welcome. Not by a long shot, and Dean found himself longing for the familiar presence of his Baby; something stable to root him to the ground when all he felt was untethered and likely to fly off his axis. The Impala had been their home for so long, their refuge during so many storms. It was hard not to think that if only they had her now, this storm could be weathered, too.

But she was locked away, along with all their familiar trappings, every habit and trusted standby; hidden from view so as not to give them away, so as not to shine like some giant, neon sign pointing them out to every security camera and surveillance system they passed. One by one, everything they'd ever known, ever trusted was being taken away. Bit by bit, they were losing what little they had left.

"I'm sure you will be," she said with that gentle, knowing smile that said she saw right through him. It was kind and genuine. He almost wished it wasn't. It would have made things so much easier. "I would feel so much better knowing that you were someplace where you could get a decent night's sleep. Maybe a hot shower and a warm meal."

Dean felt himself wavering. The lure of a hot shower after so many days…weeks…he wasn't even sure when the last time was that he'd had a _warm_ shower, let alone a _hot_ one. It had been even longer since he'd had a decent night's sleep. He refused to count that turducken food coma.

It had been just as long for Sam.

He looked up at his brother. He was half-asleep on his feet. His eyes, still puffy and red from his breakdown, drifted in and out of focus, his gaze flicking to the side with that Hell-tinged hint of distracted attention that usually indicated he was seeing and hearing things that were for his eyes and ears only.

"Sam," he called sharply and Sam's gaze snapped to Dean's. "You with us?" Sam blinked a few times, his head whipping back to where he'd been looking before. His gaze darted around, searching. Dean cupped his face and turned him back to look at him.

"Sorry," came Sam's quick reply. "'m'kay."

He wasn't okay. He was drugged and in need of a safe, quiet place to sleep it off; someplace that wouldn't trigger more hallucinations; and the van where he'd held Bobby's bleeding body was not the place for it. He looked back at Sister Mary and nodded.

"Yes?" she asked, hope and relief in equal measure in her blue eyes. Then to his amazement, she said, "Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's not much," Sister Mary commented modestly.

Dean didn't have the heart to tell her that it was four stars and then some compared to where they'd been sleeping, lately. The front door opened up right into a living room no bigger than most of the hotel rooms they'd stayed in growing up. Unlike a good number of those rooms, the carpet was clean and free of cigarette burns; the walls were painted a light, neutral color instead of covered in torn, peeling wallpaper with stomach-turning and seizure-inducing patterns; and the furniture, although old and worn, was intact, no tears in the upholstery or visible, protruding springs.

There was a couch against the opposite wall banked on either side by small, square end tables. A matching coffee table sat in front of it. Against the front wall, between the front door and the lone window, there was a recliner and a brass floor lamp. There was no TV.

When they'd pulled up in front of the small, one-story house situated on a postage-stamp lot about three doors down from the church; Sister Mary had explained that the house belonged to the church. The church caretaker had lived there rent free for years, but after suffering a mild stroke the year before, he had moved to Virginia to live with his son and his family. Since then, the church had been lending it out to people in need as a sort of temporary shelter. Parishioners donated their time on the weekends to keep it clean and maintained.

"It's great," Dean said, and he meant it. One look at that couch and it took all his self-control not to flop himself down and go to sleep.

They followed her through the living room, Sam shuffling along under his own stubborn power and Dean keeping his hands poised to grab him if he stumbled or lost his balance. He'd fallen asleep within minutes of folding his long body into the back seat of her small sedan, his head thumping against Dean's shoulder as soon as Dean had slid in beside him. Dean had thought for certain he was going to have to half-carry, half-drag him into the house.

Dean still wasn't one hundred percent sure that Sam was awake, but he was up and moving and following instructions without the need for any physical exertion on Dean's part. The fact that he was following those instructions without the slightest hint of reaction—not even the patented Sammy bitchface at being treated like he couldn't take care of himself—was something Dean flat-out refused to think about at the moment.

They passed through an archway that led to the dining room. There was a table with six chairs and a wooden hutch filled with plain, white dishes. The floors were hard wood covered with a large area rug in varying shades of browns and blues.

"The kitchen is through that door," she said pointing to the right. "We keep the pantry stocked with non-perishables; pasta, jars of sauce, soups. Things like that. You're welcome to whatever you'd like. There is coffee and sugar, but no cream or milk."

"That's okay," Dean said, feeling just a little overwhelmed. He wasn't one to accept charity. They just didn't see all that much of it. As kids, they'd been taught to stay out of sight and to do without. They just couldn't risk someone thinking they were being neglected and calling Family Services. As adults, they made do with what they could get for themselves.

She turned to the left and started down a narrow hallway. Dean grabbed Sam's arm when it looked like he was going to keep going straight—right into the back of a chair—and gently steered him in the right direction. Sam only looked down at the hand on his arm, then up at Dean. One corner of his mouth twitched in a subtle smirk that held no humor at all.

They passed the bathroom on the right, and Dean immediately made note of the full tub and shower. He wondered if he was going to have the energy to take advantage of it, tonight. Sam, he was going to make wait until he was more in command of his balance.

Sister Mary stopped at the first of the three bedrooms, the one across from to the bathroom. She stood aside and invited them to enter before her. Sam stepped into the room but stopped suddenly. Dean nearly walked right into him.

"Dude," he said, giving Sam a small shove to get him moving again. It was like pushing on a wall. Sam wasn't budging. Dean was forced to look over his shoulder.

The first thing Dean noticed was the single bed. Other than that, it was a normal bedroom; hardwood floors, beige walls, brown drapes, and the single bed that was no smaller than what they normally found in motels covered in a brown and green plaid bedspread. He looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye, taking in the tight jaw and the wide, troubled eyes. Barring clowns; there was only one thing Dean knew of that put that look on Sam's face, now.

Dean closed his hand around Sam's arm and it seemed to snap him out of his trance. "Sorry," Sam uttered. He didn't look at Dean, just continued to stare at that lone bed—or, Dean suspected, at whom he saw sitting on that lone bed. His left hand drifted into his right.

"The room next to this one is another single," Sister Mary said casually, as though she wasn't aware that anything was wrong. Dean caught her gaze behind Sam's back, and he realized that wasn't the case at all. There was concern in her eyes, and that uncanny awareness that seemed to see through everything.

"Both of these rooms _are_ on the front of the house, and I'm told the traffic on the road out front in the morning can get a little loud," she continued, looking at Dean directly. "If you'd prefer it a little more quiet in the morning, and you don't mind sharing; the room across the hall has two beds."

"Quiet in the morning?" Dean said. "That sure sounds good to me. How's that sound to you, Sammy?"

Sam looked at Dean like the suggestion was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, and Dean could have kissed her for making it. He nodded, backing out of the room as though he didn't want to turn his back on what lingered there.

That back bedroom was perfect in so many ways. The walls were that same beige as the other bedroom, but the colors of the bedspread, area rug and drapes were muted shades of blues and greens. The two beds were side by side, with a small nightstand between them. If Dean squinted, it almost looked like one of the hundreds of motel rooms they'd stayed in over the years, minus the stains and strange smells. There was even a bookshelf filled with old, dog-eared paperbacks against the wall adjacent to the door.

He watched Sam drift into the room and head straight for the bookshelf, running his fingers down the worn spines and reading the titles. Dean thought he might have even breathed in their scent. Dean turned to Sister Mary and gave her a tired smile.

"I don't even know what to say about all this?" he said quietly. "I mean, obviously; thank you. It just…I don't know… It sounds so…so _not enough_."

She smiled warmly. "You're very welcome, Dean."

"I guess I just don't understand why. I mean, I know you think that Fate or…or whatever had a hand in all this, but I gotta tell you, Sister, and I swear I mean no disrespect; but that was some Yellow Brick Road you travelled to get here. I mean, a lot of bricks had to shift and line up just right, you know?

"Sam and I…we've been through stuff you couldn't even begin to imagine. You'd think we were stark raving mad if we were to tell you. And even after everything we've done, after everything we've sacrificed and lost; you'll never convince me that Fate cares enough one way or the other, about what happens to Sam and me, to go through all that trouble."

She reached out and took Dean's hand, cupping it between her palms. She looked up at him with understanding and compassion. "Do you believe that you make a difference?"

The question caught him off guard, calling up memories he didn't want to revisit.

_I'm talking the way a person talks…when they've _had_ it. When they can't figure out why they used to think all this mattered._

"I used to," he admitted. "Now, I just don't know."

"Well, my heart tells me that you make a difference, that you have been _Called_,"—and she said the word like it had power, like she saw it as a vocation every bit as holy as her own— "to a service beyond what most people will ever know, let alone understand."

He shook his head, still unable to see it; to believe it. "But, you can't know that."

"I don't _know_ a lot of things, Dean. But, I have faith; and my faith tells me to trust my heart."

She gave his hand a quick pat and Dean knew that as far as she was concerned, that part of the conversation was over. "Now, do you think your brother might eat some soup if I were to heat some up?"

"You don't have to do that," he said.

She gave him an indulgent smile. "Let's pretend that I do."

He sighed, feeling tears prickle at the backs of his eyes. It was always the unexpected kindnesses of others that seemed to kick his tough-guy veneer right in the teeth. "I don't know. Maybe?"

Her smile brightened immediately. "Good. While I'm doing that, why don't you get him settled. There are clothes in the dressers. Some were Mr. Mitchell's, the caretaker. Others have been donated. You might find something that will fit him."

Dean chuckled at that. "Only if Mr. Mitchell was Sasquatch-sized."

"I don't know about that," she replied with humor. "I've heard that he was tall, but..." She looked passed Dean to where Sam still stood by the bookshelf, and she shrugged her shoulders. "I'm sure we can find something that will tide him over while I wash his clothes."

"While you wash his clothes?" he repeated. "No, Sister, please. You don't..."

"It's no trouble. There is a washing machine and dryer off the kitchen."

He was shaking his head before she'd even finished speaking. Soup was one thing, and when added to everything else she had already done for them, even that was skirting the edge of what his pride would let him stomach. No way was he going to let her wash blood out of his brother's clothes. That was so far above and beyond what he could accept.

"Dean, what?"

Dean glanced back at Sam. Even half-unconscious, Sam could pick up on his moods in a way that was down-right unnerving. He didn't want to upset him, now. Sam wasn't paying attention, though; and Dean couldn't help but shake his head in exasperation. What was it with Sam and books, anyway?

Hoping that Sam would stay preoccupied for a little while longer-and that there wasn't a copy of _Dante's Inferno_ or _Lucifer Rising_ waiting to jump out of the bookshelf and bite Sam in the ass-he gestured for her to step out into the hall with a subtle jerk of his head.

"Dean, what's wrong?" she asked quietly as soon as he cleared the doorway.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his hand down his face. "Look, Sister," he said, keeping half his focus trained on the bedroom. "I appreciate everything you've done for us. It's just...we're not used to people doing stuff for us that we're perfectly capable of doing for ourselves. We were kinda raised to take care of ourselves and each other."

"And how much of that was out of practicality or necessity?" she asked gently.

He snorted. "All of it."

"Well, tonight it's neither practical nor necessary."

"Why?" he hissed, suddenly angry. He looked away from her, his jaw clenched. He drew a deep breath, trying to keep tight rein on his temper. It wasn't directed at her, after all; but at something he couldn't get his hands on and hurt. "'cause Bobby's dead?" he said through gritted teeth. "What does that have to do with anything? The Big Bads aren't gonna just—"

He slammed his mouth shut, his chest heaving. His fists clenched at his sides and the urge to slam one right through the drywall was so strong it actually hurt to hold back. He felt a soft touch land on his arm and he flinched away from it.

"Don't," he uttered. _Don't try to make this better._

Undeterred, she stepped around him, all but forcing him to look at her or turn away. "Dean, I don't know what it is that you two do, and I don't know what it is that you are going to have to face when you walk out that door. I only know that I probably will not be able to help you through any of it.

"But this? This I can help with. A place to stay, something to eat, and clean clothes. The basic needs of _right now._" She smiled warmly. "Really, in the grand scheme of things; I get the feeling that I'm getting the better deal, here."

He felt a smile pull the corner of his lips even as he felt his eyes start to sting. "When you put it that way," he joked weakly.

"It's not so hard to accept, huh?" she teased back. Her smile faded a bit, taking on that gentle, motherly quality. Dean's vision blurred. "So, let me take care of all those mundane, boring, menial concerns that don't really matter, because you don't need to worry about any of those, tonight.

"The _only_ thing you need to worry about, tonight…" She slowly turned him so he faced the bedroom. "Is in there."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_T. B. C._

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, this was supposed to be a simple Epilogue to tie up the loose ends, but apparently I still had things to explore in this story. Maybe the gap between Death's Door and Adventures in Babysitting had something to do with that. It certainly gave me more room to play._

_To all of you who have added this story and me to their Follow and Favorites lists, and to all of you who have left reviews; I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I promise, I will respond to you all. I appreciate your kind words and your support so much. I hope you will continue to enjoy the story._

_To Kailene; as always, a million thanks for everything. And thanks for the 11th hour read-thru. Any errors are mine entirely. _


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